


the craft so long to learn

by teaofpeach



Series: the craft so long to learn [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bad Jokes, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gender Neutral, Gunshot Wounds, Implied Sexual Content, Injury, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore, Other, Planet Tatooine (Star Wars), Post-Season/Series 02, Tatooine Slave Culture (Star Wars), Time Skips, [mentioned] - Freeform, [no detailed descriptions], [no pronouns used at all actually], aka the bullshitting of sw medicine as a whole, such a DRASTIC tone change between xii and xiii let me warn you now, you've heard of unreliable narrator. now get ready for unreliable author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29082453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaofpeach/pseuds/teaofpeach
Summary: The reign of Boba Fett has settled over the Dune Sea and its sunken palace. The local doctor is not a fan.(a series of events that get worse, really.)
Relationships: Boba Fett & Reader, Boba Fett/Reader, Fennec Shand & Reader
Series: the craft so long to learn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142675
Comments: 11
Kudos: 92
Collections: SW Happy SIs





	the craft so long to learn

**Author's Note:**

> been sitting on this egg so long it's scrambled
> 
> ———
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated!

_i._

To the core, Bib Fortuna is repulsive. 

You know this as simple fact, the same way you know how to set a dislocated shoulder. The same way you know how much bacta to keep aside for the battered girls chained to the base of the throne. The same way you know that on Tatooine, it’s best to keep your head down. 

There’s a saying in Huttese. It doesn’t translate too well into Basic but you think it’s fitting, regardless. _“Only the blind may look up to the suns.”_ One sun for each eye.

Bib Fortuna is repulsive. He is powerful.

And as of today, he is _dead_.

Lined up with a handful of others, it is odd, to be in the throne room. The man — this wretched, sleazy filth — that had lorded his power over all your heads for so long is now slumped over the ground. Dead. _Dead._ It’s surreal to see. 

You know it doesn’t mean anything in the long run, practically speaking. Rulers are like dominoes; toppling one after the other, after the other, after the other. One’s death is a minor happening in the grand scheme of things. 

And there is the fact you took an oath to do no harm — you’re a doctor. Schadenfreude shouldn’t be anywhere close to your emotional range.

_But._

It is so very, very satisfying.

“You were all previously under the employ of Bib Fortuna,” the woman before you calls out. Her voice is sharp; her gaze, sharper. “That changes today.”

She punctuates her statement with a kick to the bloated body at her feet, like its limp presence wasn’t the first thing you spotted on entry. The grip on her blaster doesn’t flinch, her braid doesn’t so much as sway, and one sickly beige lek flops to the side. Deadweight.

It falls near a dark boot, belonging to the one seated on the throne.

“Now, you work for Boba Fett.”

_Boba Fett._

A broad, menacing figure. Till now, he hasn’t spoken. Something about the way he sits — wide and comfortable, yet so much more _alert_ than Fortuna had ever been — tells you that he is who you should be focused on. A predator with no need to be sleek or lithe if he is biting.

The armour isn’t explicitly familiar to you. But green is so very rare on Tatooine that any glimpse of it tends to stick in your mind. You’ve heard the legends and rumours of a sharp-edged shadow seeping into the walls of Jabba’s Palace, shooting when told and perhaps when he wasn’t. You’re not intimately acquainted with the ex-bounty hunter beyond his extensive reputation, though you’re reasonably sure that several years ago, he too was declared dead. 

Interesting how things work out.

A displeased rumble to your left makes your gut lurch. Great _Mother_ , this is a coup. A successful coup. You should probably stop zoning out, but there’s hardly precedent for this kind of situation.

A Trandoshan mercenary— nameless, since he’s never been one of your patients — snarls at the two newly-incumbents on the podium. Tall and reptilian, he’s part of the line-up before the throne, with you and a handful of others who previously squirmed under Fortuna’s fat thumb. “If it’s so easy to take control,” he hisses, “What’s to stop us from turning on _you?_ ”

A hint of a grin curls on the woman’s face, and the air feels frigid. Someone to your right shifts on their feet.

It’s hard to stay stone-faced when you feel your stomach curdle. Your stun blaster, buckled compact and reliable at the small of your back, feels much heavier all of a sudden. Unwieldy on your inexperienced person, more of a failsafe than actual firepower. Receiving the automated comms summon to the throne room an hour ago, you hadn’t expected trouble. You’re not sure if you’d survive a shootout. 

You step a fraction further away from the mercenary. 

The Trandoshan growls, swerving for his blaster and—

A flash of red, the whine of a discharged bolt. You blink. Something thuds heavily to the ground at your left, and upon looking down, you realise it’s— it’s the shooter. 

There’s a blaster wound sizzling through the scales on his forehead and a hand sitting slack at his still-holstered pistol.

_Not_ the shooter, then. He hadn’t even time to draw his weapon.

_How fast did he—?_

“Easy isn’t the word I’d use.” 

The gravelly, modulated voice comes from the throne. Grim, with a touch of morbid amusement. Someone wholly unbothered by the life he’s just taken. 

Fett still hasn’t dropped his blaster. The hint of plasma residue burning in the air warns you that the weapon is still primed in your general direction.

And you have... a stun gun. Talk about bringing a vibro to a blaster fight.

“If anyone else has any complaints,” he continues gruffly, “I suggest you take it up with our friend, here.” The helm rolls, an almost _lazy_ scan of those still standing to see if there’ll be trouble. “Or you can join him. I don’t care which.”

_Didn’t have time to draw his weapon._

Your brows rise of their own accord, and you have to clamp down a rising gust of air in your lungs. There’s a feeling coming to life, something kicking and squirming in your chest that you can’t define, can’t _shake._

The ‘friend' in question is still dead. Obviously. So it’s not much of a choice, really, it’s just that… _you_ can’t be the one to break the silence. To pop the proverbial bubble. Better to leave that to someone else, wait for some sycophant fool to throw themselves at Fett’s feet and—

“Of _course,_ sir.” 

There it is.

It comes from your right, this time; an older-sounding Rodian. Her voice is clogged with cloying subservience, a trill too measured to be genuine, and as she steps forward in a sweeping, theatrical bow, you wrinkle your nose before you can stop yourself. Another frilled speech for whichever bastard holds the dice. Rolling your eyes would not be worth the trouble.

“I, for one, welcome this new era, and _gladly_ offer my humble services to a man of your stature. I pledge my allegiance to—”

“Enough,” Fett says shortly, a gloved hand raised to stop the snivelling. “I don’t care.”

Oh.

That’s… surprising. As directly as you dare, you study the man with newfound intrigue. What kind of Tatooinian crime lord didn’t want to be praised? To be lavished with pretty, empty words to inflate their ego? Bewilderment has no place in the lion’s den, no place in your life if you’d like to maintain it, but it might be warranted today.

“I have no need for your allegiance. I doubt it would mean much coming from any of you.”

How often do you get to witness something _new?_

The Rodian blinks her large, shiny bug-eyes rapidly, just as stunned by the interruption as the rest of you. 

The slight against your integrity doesn’t particularly bother you. En masse, it’s a good attitude to keep for Tatooine. And this man, enigmatic as he is, is a stranger. His opinion of your moral compass is of no consequence. But he certainly has your attention.

Then the Rodian squares her shoulders before trying again. Brave, or stupid. Probably the latter. You mentally give her points for perseverance, if nothing else.

“My deepest apologies, sire. You are correct! Instead I shall prove my loyalty with my actions, my life bound to you and you alone—”

_Click._

“I told you once,” Fett growls. His blaster is aimed squarely at the Rodian. The baritone sounds darker, heavy with intent. He’s annoyed.

The Rodian woman shuts her mouth.

The vaguely fearful responses to your right are far away, a drop of water in the dunes. You stare straight at the helmet, perhaps too brazen for your own good. To your horror, you have to fight a smile working its way onto your face. 

With a corpse to your left, and cowards at your right, you are struck with the sense that a fresh Tatooine dawn is for once something to look forward to.

———

_ii._

Eventually you’re all more or less told to run along. The order doesn’t meet any protest. The Rodian stumbles on her way out, and no one offers their help.

Lying in your cot that night, you realise what you felt in that moment. When Boba Fett shot the Trandoshan. Something you haven’t felt in a long while, not since you arrived on Tatooine. 

You were impressed.

———

_iii._

Another summons arrives the next day. For you alone this time, if the silence from the cave’s mouth is anything to go by. After a night’s attempt at rest, you are much more aware of last meeting’s kill count. Makes you wonder if it’s worth packing a real blaster for once.

Many reasons you shouldn’t, obviously. For instance, you don’t actually have one. Not to mention that you doubt Fett would give you the courtesy of a whole minute to fumble with the safety, draw and trigger.

Stepping down into the cool, dark cavern of the Palace — because _Jabba’s_ is inaccurate, has been for a while now — you wonder if a scalpel might have been the way to go. Not really your area of expertise, but something you’re comfortable with. Something that you’ve sliced with before.

In any case, you’re unarmed as you reach the throne room. It’s all well and good to make this kind of speculation now as you’re about to venture forth into the belly of the beast. There isn’t even that stupid stun gun stuffed into your waistband. 

_Maybe he’ll take it as a show of good faith,_ you muse. The thought makes you smile. It’s only a little bitter.

“Something funny?” 

The voice makes you jump, whirling round to see the speaker sitting on a short set of steps facing the empty throne, polishing her blaster. 

The woman from yesterday.

She looks perfectly at ease, oiling the weapon’s barrel with practiced care, seemingly paying more attention to it than you. In the dim half-light, you resist squinting your eyes to see her better. Right now, she’s just sort of... outlined.

This place has never been a source of comfort. A chill creeps up your spine with every second you have to be here. Something that bothers, but could be ignored.

Your eyes drift to the base of the throne; nothing but sandy, unblemished stone where Fortuna’s body lay dead just yesterday

Being here now, you find it plainly disconcerting. Your clinic is your turf, however small it may be. Sterile, organised. And known. Everything is exactly as you kept it, not so much as a mouse droid to track in mud or trouble or anything _else_. Just you, doing what you’re good at. 

It’s not like that here. No rules so much as suggestions, unless they come from whichever god you’re kneeling before today. Everything murky and dank, blurring into one oily, shaded portrait of suffering.

You’ve barely stepped through the entrance and you’ve half a mind to leave.

“I really hope you’re more talkative than this, doc,” the woman — _mercenary?_ — goes on, keeping the polishing cloth aside and sliding the blaster’s components together like clockwork. You hear a huff, something amused and a touch derisive. “Hope you’re not _boring_.”

“You might be disappointed,” you say, as softly as you dare without being asked to repeat. You don’t ask how she knows who you are.

That, of all things, is what makes her look at you. With the same gaze from the day before, the one that pokes needles at your scalp. She observes you from head to toe, picking you apart in her mind like _you’re_ the one seated on the dusty steps and she’s standing tall over you instead. 

You can respect wanting to understand all the in’s and out’s of something. Of someone. Dissection, at its core, is done to learn. 

She stands, keeping the blaster on her person. “Fennec Shand,” she states curtly, sticking her hand out. “You’ll call me Fennec.”

An instruction, not an offer. You shake, ignoring the twinge of your knuckles in her firm grip. “I’m—”

“We know who you are, doc.”

You smile thinly. “Of course you do.”

Her expression couldn’t be called pleased, but it’s something reminiscent. A ghost of amusement passing across her face like smoke in the breeze.

Fennec seems content to let you sweat in silence, so you might as well ask. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me why I was summoned here.”

“I could.” She doesn’t sound particularly bothered. “But I think it’d be better coming from him.”

Fennec nods her head to the side and—

You flinch. A familiar silhouette stands near a column. _Fuck,_ how long has he been lurking there?

The air in your lungs seems too dry. It crackles and itches as Boba Fett steps closer, the unshakeable rhythm of his spurs echoing throughout the hall. Neither you nor Fennec speak, though you wish it could be for the same reason.

As he approaches, certain details are illuminated and catch your eye. Some kind of insignia on his right shoulder plate. A furrowed dent above the left side of the visor, strangely at odds with the smooth coat of paint adorning his armour. Swathes of dark cloth are worn beneath. Allows movement, wouldn’t show bloodstains. He strikes you as someone who prefers to get his hands dirty, so his clothing of choice is practical. That’s all it is.

Yet an old, childish tale springs up in the back of your mind.

The wraith, shrouded in his black robes, knocking on doors to collect souls at their time. An emissary of Death.

Fett doesn’t say anything till he’s close enough to touch. You’d rather not. The silence is oppressive, to the point that you almost miss yesterday’s standoff. 

A brusque nod is shared between Fett and Fennec. Then she casts you a shrewd, calculating look — one that makes you want to squirm, against your better judgement — before securing her blaster in both hands and walking away. 

“Have fun,” she calls over her shoulder, ducking out of the west exit. You don’t know who it’s meant for.

Her braid swishes lightly on her way out. And now it’s just you and Fett.

Neither of you introduce yourselves. Anything resembling normal conversation feels… inappropriate. At least with Fennec you could see her face.

“The doctor,” Fett rumbles. He’s not particularly enthused. “You work here. Or you used to.”

You wet your lips nervously. “Not really. I didn’t work for Fortuna.”

“Did he not want you to?”

“Not that.” Your competency is not in question here. You will not allow it to be. “It’s just— I’m not hired privately, since there aren’t any other doctors within a four-klick radius.”

That’s good. The pay might be shit, but being relatively indispensable is your ticket to survival out here. Reminding him of that has to be a good move. Your shoulders are on the verge of relaxing, when—

“Are you Imperial?”

The question feels like a slap to the face. “What?”

“Answer the question,” Fett orders calmly. “Are you loyal to the Empire?”

He could be discussing the weather, for all the urgency in his voice. Like that kind of accusation is a passing icebreaker.

It is very, very difficult to keep the offence you feel off your face. So you don’t bother to try.

“No.” Your voice is cold.

He’s not satisfied. “Were you ever?”

_“No._ What makes you think—”

“Information spreads fast. And you keep your hands too clean.”

Immediately, your lips twist into a disbelieving sneer. “Excuse me?”

“You say you didn’t work for Fortuna. Yet you’re in close contact with the Hutt syndicate.” That. In his voice. You can hear the faintest tinge of scorn. 

Fett goes on. “You have training, but you only arrived on Tatooine some years ago. Not a local, not with the Hutts.”

The helmet tilts as if to say _the jig is up_. Regarding you like some slimy Imp snivelling through Tatooine’s gutters. Like your anger, burning smoke into your lungs and charring your ribs, is nothing.

The second you take to find your words only fans the flames.

“My hands are _clean_ ,” you spit quietly, baring your teeth, “Because I scrub them. I get elbow-deep in someone’s chest cavity trying to fix whatever damage _you_ dealt there.”

You take a step closer, getting in his face. “I have put more people together than you will ever take apart. Do not tell me I’m a coward, _Fett,_ when you’re the one sitting on a throne built by slaves.”

A tremor wracks your jaw and you bite down on it viciously. The whites of your eyes are reflected in his visor. You do not blink, feeling instinctively that breaking his gaze would seal up the venom churning on your tongue, and you would like to douse him in it.

Fett doesn’t move. He stays quiet to unnerve you.

“How dare you?” you whisper incredulously. “How dare you? Only one of us has ever worked for the Empire so I _doubt_ you have room to judge me, you—”

“Are you done?”

You falter.

The audacity this man has to sound bored. Not even impatient, or anything adjacent to the emotion frothing at the hollow of your throat. The man is a mountain, unmoved by your righteous fit of rage. And here you are chipping at its base, seeking to shake the earth.

A mistake to be corrected; _think_. What could come from him asking? Either you’d say yes, in which case you’d be exiled as a best case scenario. Or you’d deny it with a lie, in which case you’d be _killed_ as a best case scenario. 

Or — as the truth — you do what you just did. Defend your integrity.

He knows all this. Fett knew beforehand that in the outcome where you’re most likely to survive, you’d be driven to this; seething in his face.

This is when you realise that getting angry at Boba Fett will accomplish nothing.

Your shoulders lower — not fall, or slump, because this is not defeat. This is conserving your resources. Your expression, contorted with insult, relaxes into a mildly displeased grimace. Trying to keep your breathing even is a challenge.

“Obviously not,” you mutter. “But I think I’ve made my point.”

Fett nods approvingly. You don’t like it. 

It’s the reminder of your proximity that makes you take a step back. You’re surprised that he’s willing to drop it. But to immediately take this as vindication would be foolish. 

“That’s all,” he says, tilting the helmet pointedly. “I’ll be seeing you, doctor.” 

_We’re done here._

“Is that a dismissal?” The mockery in your voice is subtle, just to be safe. 

Fett hears it anyway. “It would be in your best interest to take it as one.”

You expect him to leave, walk away as you do the same. But he just… stands there. Waiting for you to move.

You frown. He can’t seriously be seeing you out.

A sharp breath leaves the helmet, grating through the vocoder. “Run along, now.” The next tilt of the helmet is distinctly condescending.

Ah. If you can mock, so can he.

Best to leave it at that.

As you turn on your heel and step lightly towards the exit, you think there is something to be said about bruised pride. It smarts less once you’ve gotten a few hits in yourself.

But at the steps leading up to the mouth of the cave, you stop. The break in your footsteps is rather loud, for silence. Curiosity pulls you around with a question. 

“Is that all you called me here for? To find out whether I’m an Imp?”

You watch him carefully for any ticks, not trusting him to answer truthfully. But you catch nothing. “I got what I wanted.”

_Do you ever not,_ is a question you’d like to ask. _What are you taking from me that I don’t know,_ is another. 

Instead, feeling too closely observed, you walk up the rest of the stairs without a word. You go home.

And you don’t relax till you’ve locked the door of the clinic behind you.

———

_iv._

Tatooine’s triplet moons gleam through your window as you sleep. You dream of the wraith drifting over your threshold.

You hear a clink. The wraith is wearing spurs.

———

_v._

Nowadays, you’re accustomed to keeping your stun blaster on you at all times. Not that you’re some extraordinary marksman, but it makes you feel… more confident. Not ‘safer’ — that, you’re sure of. In the weeks since Fett’s taken over, you don’t feel unsafe, no more than usual. Just ever so slightly disquieted, even when taking the short, well-traversed journey back from the trader’s market.

It’s been a long, long day. The morning was packed with back-to-back examinations of a mining colony; some human, some Twi’lek. Apparently there had been some sort of accident the night before, a collapsed cart track. There were no casualties, thankfully, but the injured were many.

Just running your errands afterwards has you swaying on your feet. You took care to balance the weighted bags in both hands so that you don’t stumble. The straps dig into the flesh of your palms like a brand.  
  
It could be the fatigue that makes you overlook the man standing at your doorstep.

You halt a few metres away as his silhouette comes into focus. You watch Boba Fett turn around at the sound of your footsteps.

“Doctor,” he greets. The way your title is coloured in his timbre doesn’t sit right with you.

You open your mouth to return with something similar, but nothing comes out.

What do you call him? Anything even beginning to resemble ‘sire’ is instantly out of the question. ‘Hunter’ would be past its time. And his name, well.

The last time you used it, you were throwing it back in his face like an insult. You’re reluctant to resort to it now that it’s been attached to such an incident.

So you shut your mouth and keep walking. As you approach the door, Fett steps aside to let you pass. You eye him strangely before switching a bag from one hand to the other to place your palm to the door scanner. It lets out a light, shrill _beep_ before flashing a request for the code. A beat of hesitation, then you angle your body to block his line of sight from the panel.

“If I ever wanted to get into your home,” he comments nonchalantly, “I wouldn’t need the access key.”

“So breaking and entering is your crime of choice?” you snap back, pressing in the digits somewhat harder than necessary.

“Identity fraud, actually.”

Your hand freezes above the final number. You blink, wondering if you’d hear him correctly. That’s a joke. Any other time, it would have been funny.

_Yikes._

Your finger comes down on the button and the door slides open. “Right,” you acknowledge hesitantly.

He’s… he’s going to come in, isn’t he?

Just bite the bullet. The suspense is getting old. “Are you here to intimidate me?” you ask bluntly.

“Do you think I do home calls for that sort of thing?”  


“I don’t know anything about what you do.”

Fett mulls that over. “Would you like to?”  


You squint at him. “Just get inside. These bags are getting heavy.”

He doesn’t offer to help you with them. You didn’t expect him to.

———

_vi._

“You believe I am temporary.” It is not a question, yet the weight of the consequences should you not answer seems… obvious.

He is comfortable in your clinic. Too comfortable, as if with his throne comes an inherent right of way into the nooks and crannies of your life. The blow to your pride is almost _painful_ as you realise that here and now, it does.

But his not-question awaits.

“Yes,” you say quietly. “I do.”

The helmet tilts, scrutinising you behind the visor. This feels precarious. Dangerous. “And why is that, doctor?”

You wet your lips, press them together firmly. Consider fiddling with the grocery bags on the table at your side before deciding better of it. This conversation is one you’d rather have some other time, if at all. But you’ve started with honesty and now it’s your only option. You just have to figure out how to phrase it.

“Everyone thinks they’re… permanent.” You avert your eyes to the durasteel gurney. “Everyone assumed Jabba would be forever and now he’s gone. Same with Fortuna, and he’s gone too.”

You trail off. Your implication hangs in the air, dangling and scalding your ears the longer it’s left untouched. _Fett is just another name on the list._

But interestingly enough, he doesn’t take the bait. His next question takes a second to register.

“You weren’t around during Jabba’s time, were you?”

Your gaze flits up to the dark slash of his visor. Inscrutable, as always. His voice curls out from the vocoder in a way that sounds mildly _curious,_ if you wanted to dig that deep.

“N-no.” You clench your jaw. “How did you know?”

If Fett hears the stutter, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Or maybe he’s pleased as punch behind the beskar; you’d never be able to tell.

The helmet cocks to the side consideringly. “I would have remembered you.”  


Your brows shoot up — _what the fuck are you supposed to make of that?_ — but before you can even blink, Fett continues smoothly.

“Where were you?”

“I…”

You’re not normally a slow person. You’re _not;_ the nature of your profession and the circumstances of your post have never allowed it. Yet finding the critical thought required to navigate a conversation with Fett currently seems like a one-in-a-million chance. 

_Why did he ask? How do you answer? What is he planning?_

Your mind is mired in thick, murky sludge, and every attempt to wade through the disorienting depths pulls you deeper into uncertainty.

Then he stands, taking a heavy step forwards, and you freeze.

Getting closer, he tilts his head down to address you. It’s unnerving, the way he can make eye contact and you can’t. “Well? I’m waiting.”

He’s— He’s not even that fucking _close_. Still far enough that you could extend an arm and your fingertips would barely brush his chest plate. 

Yet somehow it’s getting difficult to breathe. His shadow is so much longer than yours, so much bigger in person than he ever appeared on that distant throne. Seated upon power and always so, so aware of it.

You’re gawking. _Stop it._

“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, doctor.”

It would be irritating to think of how measured his voice is; controlled in its mounting impatience, expectant. So you don’t. 

You exhale, long and slow through your nose. It’s too much to hope that he doesn’t notice your nerves. “I was getting my medical license.”

“Where?”  


“Off-world,” you snap. Something about this interrogation — for it _is_ an interrogation, you can see that much— irks you. Better clenched fists than trembling fingers, anyway.

You feel no better than a loth-cat hissing at a hungry, snarling wolf.

And then the ground shifts; your heart sinks to your feet as rock cracks and morphs and crumbles, leaving you on shaky knees and shakier resolve.

Because Boba Fett chuckles. He _laughs_ , a rasping, heady sound that seems to reverb through the helmet. It brings your nervous hands to pause. Something that should worry you further, really. Subdued prey is easier to slaughter, a fact that you’re both keenly aware of. And he’s not laughing _with_ you.

His hand moves to rest on his blaster deliberately. With a voice devoid of any mirth or affected warmth — flat, chilling, _commanding_ — “Be careful you don’t overestimate my tolerance, doctor.”

Blood drains from your face. It’s cold. You can feel it, the vessels constricting and squeezing butterflies around your gut.

How… How can any one person be so confusing? Fett’s jumping between hot and cold just to rattle you and _shit,_ it’s working.

You swallow to keep those butterflies down.

“Christophsis. I studied on Christophsis.”

The answer feels like it’s been physically wrenched from your chest. The removal of a tumour, fat and malignant in the left lung, leaving only weak and shrivelled tissue to heal in the wake of its absence. That’s what it is; an absence.

Maker, you want to _sleep._

Fett nods. More to himself than to you, you’re sure. “Not a long way from home,” he notes.

Small talk. You’d scoff if you didn’t feel so exhausted. He’s digging for more information; pressing the scalpel in deeper to scoop for remnants.

Fett isn’t saying anything. And he’s not leaving. The ever-present ache behind your eyes makes itself known with a powerful throb, and you sigh.

“Christophsis was too heavily policed,” you explain tiredly. “And Tatooine was affordable. A close enough jump that I could get out when I needed to.”

Fett hums. You can’t call it encouraging, but that’s clearly what he intends it to be.

“And— And I wanted to dodge the I.M.D.”

The Imperial Medical Draft. Looming over your head for your entire tenure as a doctor, student and thereafter. 

_In accordance with Imperial Decree, medical professionals educated to a minimum standard must supply their services to employment of the Galactic Empire, for the betterment of the galaxy and the re-establishment of order._

The edict is burnt into your brain, word for word. An order to tend to stormtroopers, answer to Moffs and kneel to the Emperor. It makes you sick to this day.

“Imps never cared about Tatooine. Slave trade stayed thriving here for so long, I figured they’d let one doctor slide. And it worked, so—” You shrug— “Small victories.”

“Small victories,” he repeats slowly. It’s not... cold, anymore. Not exactly. You’re not quite sure what it is.

Didn’t— Didn’t he work for the Empire at some point? It’s a tiny kernel of general knowledge, something you’ve picked up from gossip about his career and reputation.

Your eyes fall to the blaster at his hip. You wonder, somewhat resignedly, if he’s going to shoot you. For mouthing off about the Empire. 

Of all the things to die for.

Fett notices your staring. “The Empire is dead, doctor.” He pats the weapon a few times; the gesture strikes you as fond. “Or it will be soon.”  


Once again, you’re unsure how to respond. That’s… cryptic. Maybe you’ve gotten too comfortable with the general simplicity of Tatooinian conversation. Kept to the matters at hand, what’s being stolen from the speeder under your nose rather than your rights being snatched by far-away Emperors. You don’t think it’ll be that way with Fett.

“The only thing you have to worry about now—” He tilts his head back slightly. It feels like you’re being surveyed. As if, while you’ve been feeling so behind, someone else is taking the burden of attention so you don’t have to.

“—Is _me._ ”

———

_vii._

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe you’re too burnt out to resist. But that night, you sleep better than you have in months.

———

_viii._

The next time Fennec Shand flashes on your radar is when she gets shot.

You’ve been aware of her as a constant presence. Like the suns, or the sand, or some other inevitable thing in your life. Neither of you have any reason in particular to interact and you both have enough to keep busy, surely.

Her role in the new management is unclear. But integral, if you had to venture a guess. Fennec seems to have Fett’s trust. They’re always side-by-side — as close to equals as you’ve seen around these parts. Literal partners in crime.

Is it really a surprise, then, that Fett’s the one dragging her into your clinic?

A mottled mass of green bursts through the door, Fennec’s body hanging limply by an arm strewn across his shoulders. She looks pale, weakly managing a few steps though it’s clear that Fett is the only thing keeping her upright. 

There’s a familiar jolt in your gut, that spike of adrenaline that steps in with a critical patient, followed by a heavy blanket of calm. Narrow, cultivated focus.

As you pull out the gurney — a light screech echoing in the sterile air — Fett begins listing out the damage before you can even ask.

“Three B.B.W’s,” he reports stiffly, laying Fennec on the durasteel quickly and carefully. “Right shoulder, left thigh, abdomen.”

You nod while he’s still talking. “Blaster model?

“E-11 rifle. Standard Imperial munitions.”

The information is distant, it registers as _acute_ while you flick the scanner on, aligning it over the patient. Grabbing a vibroblade from the dish of instruments to your left, you make a quick, clean slice through her top. The material, which had seemed so durable before, cleaves in two; halves of fabric fall to either side of her ribcage like hands parting from prayer. You do the same to her trousers.

Ideally, Fett should be out of the room for this. But you suspect that there is more trust placed in those two with each other than there will ever be from lying on your gurney. And you might need the extra set of hands. 

This job is so much more stressful without droids. 

Barking at the man to disinfect his hands at the station behind you, you don’t linger to watch him do so.

As expected, Fett’s assessment is mostly correct. Two round, puckered burns — one nestled beneath Fennec’s right clavicle, and the other lying a few inches above her left knee. A preliminary probe states that, to your relief, they’re both flesh wounds. The smell of singed flesh gets stronger, mixing with discharged blaster residue. Familiar.

But the third. Abdomen, B.B.W.

You see the blaster bolt wound. You see no abdomen.

You inhale sharply.

Where Fennec’s midriff should be, there’s a rectangular hole. A slim window into her guts, if she had any. Which she doesn’t.

Even the most extraneous species you’ve studied have some kind of… _gore_ on the inside. Instead, there’s a network of pistons and wires; a whole mechanical framework keeping her alive. The most dense, deeply-integrated use of cybernetics you’ve ever seen. 

One of the... gears, is it? One of the gears is scorched and dented out of place — evidently where the bolt landed — creating a blockage in the chain of movement. A wrenching, groaning sound rumbles from the metal. Fennec herself grunts with it, clenching her jaw and looking more and more nauseous with every second that ticks by.

“Oh,” you say quietly. This… would have been good to know earlier. That’s the only conclusion you’re in the right mind to process. 

But like all else beyond the patient, it must come later.

You frown, taking a local-dose bacta shot and injecting it to the side of her leg before placing it into the waste tray. Holding out a palm out to the only other person in the room, your eyes remain trained on the shoulder wound. “Another.”

Fett, to his credit, responds instantly, stepping round the table and handing you another small syringe from where you keep them. “Lift her arm, slowly.” He does so, dutifully working past the patient’s hissed curse, and you administer the anaesthetic into her armpit.

There. With the added clotting agent, the flesh wounds are stabilised for now.

“How are you feeling, Fennec?” The question is lukewarm, something to keep her talking. Your frown deepens as you watch the scanner; vital checks aren’t displaying anything between her lower ribs and pelvic floor. Her entire abdominal cavity is just an empty green outline glowing on the monitor. The machine can’t even detect anything wrong, since there’s nothing _there_. 

It’s blank. It’s unnerving. And — as a hushed, indulgent thought for later — it is very, very interesting.

“ _Stellar._ ” Her voice is raspy, but consistent. Better than you expected.

“Sarcasm is good,” you say distractedly, an idea coming to you all at once. “Means you’re alive.”

Fett speaks coldly. “And you will keep her that way.”

An order. Any other time, you might have blanched. As it is, you just tell him dismissively, “Of course I will,” before a swipe of your fingers across the screen brings a change from green to blue. 

_Magnetic readings_. 

Lo and behold, a blinking yellow triangle appears at the site of the abnormality, just to the left of where Fennec’s navel would have been. You’d smile if it was appropriate.

The bio-mech tools haven’t been used for a while, but you’re no less proficient with them — all that practice on junked protocol droids to pass the time has proven useful. Lifting the red box from underneath the gurney, you think it’s a rather positive turn of events, all things considered. It’ll be nice to try out your other limbs again.

“Don’t think we needed to come here,” Fennec wheezes. You glance at her, but she’s looking away. She’s talking to Fett.

“Wouldn’t be saying that if it was the other way round,” he rumbles. He sounds… agitated. Not that you’re concentrating on their conversation. Or eavesdropping. 

It’s his fault, really. For even being in the room during a procedure. But this isn’t the good old days, when you had droids and nurses and supervisors to spare. 

All that aside, though — this might be the most concern you’ve ever heard through that vocoder. Hired gun and her employer, you’d thought. Then co-workers.

And now you’re thinking they might actually be _friends_.

In any case, you can’t have him distracting you. Or her. 

“You’re lucky,” you tell Fennec, promptly attracting both pairs of eyes. 

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

You ignore that. “You’re _lucky_ that I took an interest in bio-mechanical enhancement.”

“Good for you.” 

Her bite is amusing. “You’re very snippy for someone under the scalpel,” you note, smiling.

You don’t actually mean anything by it. Just running your mouth because Fennec gives you the impression of a conversationalist interesting enough to be worth the trouble of speaking. Even if you are, technically, partway through a procedure.

But Fett tenses. He flicks the safety off his blaster.

You eye it, then Fennec, then him. The helmet reveals nothing, _as always._ It’s getting on your nerves.

Is— Is he _threatening_ you? When he’s come to you to heal his friend?

“Relax,” you start slowly. The demonstration exasperates you more than anything else. “None of us have time for that.”

You glance down at Fennec, eyeing the thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her eyes, dark and dilated from the bacta, look over your shoulder at the wall behind you. 

Oh. She’s worried.

And you haven’t given her much reason _not_ to be. Bedside manner is usually something conducted on autopilot, but maybe you need to put some more effort into it.

“Sorry,” you offer hastily. “It’s just that… the blaster wounds are stabilised. And the damage done to your cybernetics is fixable. I don’t even have to make an incision, since it’s all—” You gesture around her middle— “Out in the open.”

It doesn’t appear to have much effect on her.

“What I’m saying is,” you try, somewhat gentler, “You’re going to be fine. The pain isn’t an indicator of mortality.”

She looks into your eyes. Really _looks_ , with clearer perception than you’d expect from someone who’s just been shot. 

“Fennec.” Your voice is serious. You are not the sort to make promises, least of all to patients, but— “You will not die. I wouldn’t let you.”

A split-second of hesitation. It’s strange to see. Then her shoulders relax, and her head bobs in a minute nod.

You don’t see it, but Boba latches the safety back on. His hand leaves the weapon entirely, in fact.

“All right, doc.” Fennec raises a brow at you. “Do what you have to do.”

You’d object to someone else giving you orders in your own clinic. But you’re willing to cut her some slack. 

You smile, reach into the toolkit, and get to work.

———

_ix._

Several hours later, it’s done. Fennec blinks at you groggily when you tell her as much, and you can relate. Fascinating stuff, her cybernetics. But it’s finger-numbing work. Somewhat tedious.

Fett had left after the first hour or so, taking his friend’s affirmation that she’d be _just fine, don’t wait up._ He’d turned to you with what you assumed to be a piercing look, and returned with both their blasters in hand back to the Palace. Or wherever else he goes during the day.

“Thanks,” Fennec says, sitting on the edge of the gurney after you’ve helped her up. She’s watching you carefully, like this entire encounter has made her see something different.

“You’re welcome.” It’s a distracted, but genuine thing as you rifle around in a side compartment for a medical gown. Your fingers brush white cotton at the back — _there it is_ — and you return to hand her the garment. 

Your eyes stay trained politely above her shoulders. “You can wear this for the time being. Your other clothes are, uh—”

You both glance at the ground where her shirt and trousers lay, both severed in two. Even through the dark cloth, some ominous wet blotches are still visible. You’ll probably have to wipe the floors down later.

“Shredded?”

“—Unusable,” you finish at the same time. It makes you smile.

Fennec takes the gown from you slowly, and you instinctively turn around as she raises her arms. Never mind that she’s actually putting more clothes _on_. Or that you’ve spent several hours putting her innards back together.

“All right, doc, this has been fun,” Fennec grunts. You hear the thin cloth sliding over her head. “But I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“What? No—”

“You can turn around.”

You do so to look at her with concern. “I can’t let you go alone, Fennec. You’re on bacta, you just had a procedure.”

The quirk of her eyebrow is sardonic. “I can walk myself back,” she drawls. “I’m a big girl.”

“You were shot _thrice_.”

“I’ve handled worse.”  
  
You roll your eyes with such unfettered derision that she grins. It stretches over her mouth slowly. “Don’t start,” you warn.

“With what?”

“The hero shit.” She scoffs. “I’m serious!” You wave a hand in the air disdainfully. “It’s idiotic. And a whiny excuse to get out of safe post-operative procedure.”  


She watches your face with thinly-veiled enjoyment. Indulgent, in the way the spider is to the fly.

You shake your head. You’re tired and Fennec is being… tricky. Though while you can’t use the word _pleasant,_ her company is nice to have.

“Come on,” you request, holding out a hand to help her stand. “There’s a 'fresher over there, you can wash up before I drop you back.”

Fennec looks at the offered limb for a brief second — you can never quite tell what she’s _seeing_ — and claps it solidly with her own as you tug her upwards. She’s quite strong.

By the time she steps out of the fresher, you’ve fetched a bulky, nondescript robe from your wardrobe upstairs. Her face looks a little less pallid, and her braid has been retied. 

“Here.” You pass her the garment. “It’ll keep you warm.”

She nods her thanks and throws it on. “You do this for all your patients?” The question couldn’t be more leaning if she tried.

“Consider yourself special,” you intone, earning another serrated grin. “Let’s go.”

“Lead the way,” she murmurs on the way out. There’s something uncomfortably knowing in her tone.

———

_x._

The journey to the Palace is silent. You don’t mind it that way. 

Once you both reach the entrance, Fennec plants a hand on your shoulder. “Thank you,” she says quietly. She isn’t smiling now.

“No thanks necessary,” you return gently. “Comm me if there’s any pain or discomfort. And avoid physical strain, please.”

“Anything else?”  


You frown, thinking about it. "Get me my robe back in one piece, if you can manage it.”

She exhales shortly through her nose. Her mouth twitches at the corners. “We’ll see.”

Then she steps down into the mouth of the Palace. You don’t follow.

———

_xi._

Six days pass before you speak to Fett again. It’s a rather confusing time.

Two heavy knocks land on the door behind you. “Closed,” you mumble loudly over your shoulder, slumping in your chair with a data pad in hand and holding a holo-pen in your mouth. “If it’s not urgent, come back tomorrow.”

Silence. Satisfied that whoever it is has left, you go back to reading the file. 

It’s a study about the effects of bacta on the vascular system of lekku and tentacles. You’ve been engrossed in it for a couple of hours now. Relevant to a handful of recent patients with complaints of circulation problems, pins and needles in the tips of their lekku. 

Young female Twi’leks with discoloured rings circling their ankles and wrists. The result of poorly healed shackle wounds, some decades-old. Most flinch if you move too fast. It’s almost worse than the girls with glazed resignation in their eyes. 

Two more knocks on the door, sharper this time. Your brow furrows, swiftly setting the data pad aside and getting up to answer. It could be one of the working girls now, and worry clouds your judgement as you open the door without grabbing your stun gun first.

The door slides open. “Oh,” you say dumbly. “It’s you.”

Boba Fett stands outside, looking just the same in the early evening as he does in the day but for the pale purple light washing over the armour. “I doubt you were expecting anyone else,” he remarks.

Your mood sours. “What do you want?”  


“Not going to invite me inside?”

“If you really wanted to come in, you wouldn’t have to ask.” An awkward beat passes. “Oh, not— I mean in the sense that you could just barge in,” you correct, wrinkling your nose at the poor choice of words. “Not like I could stop you.”

Another pause, but it feels different. “Then may I come in?” Fett asks candidly.

He waits for your answer.

Your jaw slackens. He’s doing this for a reason. As with everything he does. Despite how often Fett seems to do it, startling you is an unintended side-effect. He’s telling you he respects your boundaries. Perhaps everyone’s. 

The decision is not difficult.

“No. You can’t.”

If it irks him, you can’t tell. It’s more that you don’t care to look for it, staring at him boldly like the first day you saw him on the throne. Except now, you’re daring him to object. To contradict himself, prove you right.

“Very well.”

You let out a breath. He doesn’t even sound disappointed. Such an emotion isn’t something you’d expect him to express to you, but— 

Fett remains outside. Doesn’t come an inch closer to the doorway. Not a part of him seems tense; he actually looks at _peace,_ if you’d care to use such a word.

He’s fully prepared to have a conversation like this. So you’ll give him that.

“All right then,” you start warily. “What did you come here for?”

Truth be told, you’re actually a little surprised that he showed up in person.

“Nothing as sinister as you’re thinking—”

“I really wasn’t.”

“—Just thought we should have a chat.”

The look you give him is highly sceptical. A _chat._ The word is so innocuous that when coming from his general direction it sounds suspicious by default. 

“I see you’ve gotten the hang of not acting sinister.”

He shrugs lightly. “I’m a likeable person.”

It’s the slow, deadpan delivery that pushes you over the edge, the corner of your mouth curving upwards as a snort escapes you. Your ribcage jerks.

Fett’s posture shifts; he seems blandly interested in your sudden giggle fit. Not good. You’re too at ease because you’re speaking to him at home.

If that’s the case then maybe you should go to the Palace more often. Just to avoid this muddying of the water.

“A chat,” you repeat, trying to sober up and move on.

He takes it, thankfully, and gets to the point. “I came to offer my thanks.”

“Excuse me?”

It takes everything in you not to physically recoil at his words.

“For Fennec’s life. You have my gratitude for it.”

Fett looks down at the ground, and the movement confuses you — he’s not a meek man — until you realise. He’s bowing his head for a long, lingering second. 

This is genuine.

You sigh. “Don’t— Don’t do that,” you protest weakly. Fett raises his head slowly. “You don’t have to thank me. Not like that.”

Quiet. New territory, this. For both of you.

“Fennec’s nice. Well— not _nice._ I like talking to her. But I would have helped regardless.”

Fett, when he speaks, sounds contemplative. “Is that so?”

A pit of resignation gnaws at your stomach. “It’s my job, and I care about it. If you came here to condescend, then I’d rather you just—”

“I don’t like doctors.”  


You grind your teeth, wondering if he has a point or if he’s just laughably bad at expressing gratitude.

“My experiences with them haven’t been pleasant. I assumed you would be no different.” 

He sighs, heavy with the weight of some revelation you’re not privy to.

“And that,” he confesses quietly, “That is my fault.”

Now that… that sounds like an apology. The breath that leaves you is astounded. Your first instinct is to tell Fett it’s unnecessary, you don’t need one. 

But doing so feels too flippant for what you are being offered. 

So you take a page out of his book, and nod your acceptance firmly. “You know, many people do. Have a thing about doctors, I mean.” Your mouth flattens awkwardly, unsure of how to phrase it. “I don’t hold it against you.”  


“You’re more forgiving than you seem.”

“Telling me how I _seem_ isn’t the best way to play nice,” you tell him primly, before the act breaks and you grin.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Maker, that’s weird. He’s funny. He likes to _be_ funny. 

These are the things you tend to miss, once you’ve decided not to like someone.

You show your hand. “Ceasefire, then?

“Not much of a fire to be ceased,” he grumbles. You think he might be smiling under the helmet. “Agreed.” 

Over your doorstep, the two of you shake hands. And that’s that.

———

_xii._

In the weeks that follow, your presence at the Palace becomes more frequent. 

More often than not, you use Fennec as an excuse.

As you press a stethoscope bell into her side, she informs you, “You have too much free time on your hands.”  


“Shush.”

Fennec purses her lips, but complies. Listening for any clanking or wheezing below her ribs can’t be done if she’s yakking away in your ear. But there isn’t any disturbance. Satisfied with the test, you withdraw, plucking the eartips of the stethoscope out. “You’re about as fine as you were last week,” you admit.

“So you agree, then. About the free time.”

You hum noncommittally, packing your kit-bag away. “If I wanted to spend my free time here, I’d just bring a pack of cards or something. Work isn’t the only thing on my mind.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Fennec’s eyes dart behind you, where you know Fett sits on the throne. It’s been hard ignoring his gaze on your back. “Or maybe not.”  


The question is clear on your face, but she doesn’t answer. There’s no time to ponder it before she stands abruptly, getting into your space and placing a hand on your shoulder. “Bring that pack of cards next time,” she murmurs. “We’ll play sabacc.” Her lip curls as she shoots you a wink, then strolls past to the exit. 

Somewhat startled, you turn to see her and Fett exchanging a few words in low tones. There is patience enough to wait while keeping your eyes politely averted.

In your periphery, she indicates your general direction and says something pointedly. Fett turns a palm over, as if to say _what can I do?_

Thinking about these two and their schemes might just be the death of you.

Then you hear the familiar click of Fennec’s boots on stone, and look up to see her standing halfway out the exit.

She calls out, “Just bring the cards next time. We’ll comm you if someone has a—” she gesticulates ambiguously— “Broken hand, or something.” 

With that, she’s gone. You’re not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

What she said makes you smile. Fett sees. “Something funny?”  


The question gives you the same impression as Fennec did when you first formally met. They rub off on each other, evidently. It’s sweet.

You shake your head, getting closer to the throne. “Nothing. Just thought of a joke.”

Fett doesn’t say anything. It takes you a beat to realise he’s waiting.

“Do— Do you want to hear it?”

“Why not,” he drawls. Sarcastic, probably, but he’s agreed.

The twitch at the corner of your mouth is excited, almost _giddy._

“It’s stupid,” you warn. The visor turns to you, perhaps bemused. “You’ll actually have to exercise a sense of humour.”

“Only if it’s funny.”

It takes a great amount of effort to keep a straight face. “Alright, so— So there’s this patient, right?”

You raise your brows to check that he’s still listening. He hums, so you continue.

“Yeah, so he comes into the clinic. He’s holding something behind his back with one arm. I ask what the problem is, and he brings the arm out. All his fingers are broken, even the thumb. Like, _really_ broken. Looks like multiple fractures on each finger, all crooked and swollen. Bone sticking out. Could’ve gone through a meat grinder.”

“And he’s freaking out, asking me if he’s gonna need surgery, if it’s as bad as it looks. I say _yes, sir,_ you’re gonna need surgery. _It’s almost beyond repair._ ”

You pause, for effect. “ _But on the other hand, you’re fine._ ”

The way you watch for his reaction can only be described as greedy, anticipation spiking in your chest. You want to get a rise out of him. With good intentions.

You are rewarded with a light bounce of his shoulders and a chuckle from the helmet, warm and entertained. Watching him laugh, sitting on the throne, widens your grin. Stretches it across your cheeks and over your heart, sugared.

“That was terrible,” he grouses, and his tone lacks any kind of reprimand beyond teasing. “This is how you do it…”

And he leads into a terrible joke of his own. You listen intently, biting your tongue to keep from laughing before the punchline even though you can already tell where this one’s going.

When you laugh, it’s a spluttered, snickering thing under your ducked head. Yet somehow, it echoes through the empty throne room anyway.

It’s nice to have someone to share these things with.

———

_xiii._

You haven’t switched the lights on. 

That’s what runs through your mind as Fett presses you up against the gurney’s edge. It’s dark. Thin beams of moonlight are the only illumination in the room, and though you can barely make out the visor, there’s a silvery outline around the helmet that you could almost call a halo. Or maybe that’s double vision, considering he’s so _close._ Scarcely a palm’s width between his forehead and yours. 

Cold metal digs into the softness at the back of your thighs — the gurney is locked in place from earlier, when you thought you’d do nothing this evening but sleep — and over Fett’s shoulder you see the clinic’s entrance is closed, but not locked. You’d left it like that so he could leave when he pleased. 

He hasn’t left yet.

“No jokes this time, doctor?”

Your lips part. You’re trying to control your breathing, keep it shallow so as not to fog on the helmet. But the image bursts behind your eyes; a warm kiss of air from your lips, landing on that achingly familiar beskar.

He always takes up so much of your attention whether he intends to or not. Even all of it, at times. For once, you would like to see evidence of the reverse. To witness some physical imprint of yourself on his identity, however fleeting it may be.

“Can’t think of any,” you whisper, with just enough air to push the words onto the metal. 

You watch the space where his mouth would be and your breath… doesn’t fog. It doesn’t.

You don’t think you were expecting it to, not really. Even Tatooine’s chilly nightfall temperatures aren’t enough for condensation. 

But something within you sinks, all the same. You’re giving it too much significance. You know that. It’s just— It’s just _breathing;_ getting so hung up on it is weird _._ And creepy. Whatever you’ve been feeling for the past few weeks is— Well, it’s a pipe dream. You’ve been looking at the suns for too long.

Then a hand reaches for your thigh, slow and warm, and you stop thinking about it.

“Shame,” Fett drawls, and you smile. Just a small, calm upturn at the corners. 

You’ve been staring at where his mouth would be for a very long time. It never occurs to you that he might be looking at yours. 

“Didn’t realise you—” The hand on your thigh squeezes, and you break off into a sigh. “Didn’t realise you liked them so much.

A hum, contemplative. “Never said that.” He sounds… pleased, you think.

A quiet, hopeful. Drawn-out. Then, just as you begin to wonder if you need to make the first move, he asks you a question.

“Do you want this?”

Oh, well. What a question.

It’s been... an _awfully_ long time since someone’s evoked this kind of response. Too long. Stirring tendrils of warmth unfurl in your belly, stoked to life by his steady, consistent presence. For better or worse, you’re all set to say yes.

Then — and with terrible timing — you laugh. 

Just a little.

His hand pauses. Just on the brink of retreat, if you can call it such a thing coming from him, taking your mirth as rejection.

“No,” you breathe, catching his hand before it leaves. “No, I didn’t mean — _no._ I do want this. Just… wasn’t expecting it.”

“Then I wasn’t being clear enough before.”

In the wake of your approval, he presses closer; barely an inch left for you to digest that information. It’s a relief to know you haven’t been imagining it, some glimmering, immaterial oasis of attraction in the desert. 

Fett must like surprising you, you think, for how often it seems to happen. And he doesn’t seem like a very _accidental_ man.

This close, his visor is long past visible. The inky streak blurs into the rest of the helmet’s shape. That’s alright; with his voice, and his closeness, you don’t need to see his face to feel his presence. But you like to imagine you’re meeting his eyes anyway.

So it’s hard to feel anything but _want_ as you murmur, “You’re being quite clear now.” 

Your head dips forward slightly to try and find him, swathed in shade and beskar. “Could you take the helmet off?”

He stills. With a straight-held gaze, you’re prepared to wait. The question isn’t obscene, it’s a fair enough request for someone whose hand is halfway down your pants. You have a right to ask, and Fett can always say no.

He… doesn’t.

His hand slides off your leg — slowly, lingering — and you hear the creak of leather as he grips both sides of the helmet. A click; a soft hiss of depressurised air. 

The phantom of the helmet slides up, and off.

You can’t see him. Not properly, as he leans past you to set the helm upon the gurney; not as he rights himself, no farther than he was before. But you are presented with a gift here in the dark. A bare face, a bare voice, in the place you feel safest. In the place where you hold strength, if not control. You don’t linger on counting blessings very often, but— 

You are grateful for this.

“What should I call you? 'Fett' seems a little impersonal.”

He tilts his head. You can tell, because a sliver of light bursts forth from the window with the movement and casts a pale streak across your gaze. You squint at the sudden brightness and regret it, as you’d rather not miss the fleeting glimpse of scar tissue that’s revealed. Tan skin, a strong jaw somewhat softened with age. Something like contentment in the firm, upturned corner of his mouth.

He straightens, blocking you from the light entirely. _“Boba,”_ is rumbled into your neck, before a warm, wet scrape of his mouth against your skin wrenches a gasp from your chest.

Your head tilts back, your eyes close. As Boba’s fingers dip beneath your waistband, you think you’d like to see his face in the light.

———

_xiv_.

The moons rise.

At some point, you remember to lock the door. You don’t see any more of his face so much as discover it, trailing across scars and crow’s feet with reverent fingertips. He presses murmurs into your skin; not nothings but they may definitely be sweet, if only you could translate. You get to use his first name so many, many times.

And the moons fall.

———

_xv._

“Mornin’, doc.”

“Marshal,” you greet blearily. Vanth’s affable face smiles at you from the hologram, too cheerful for this hour of the morning. And what a bright morning it is, twin suns glaring through your window as if to remind you of how little sleep you got last night. Mos Pelgo must have something different in the water. Or the air. Perhaps the caf.

“Late night?”  


“Something like that.” 

You trail off. Fett — _Boba,_ now — hadn’t slept over. As expected.

_“I’ll be seeing you,”_ he had murmured, his voice a husk of extinguished flame, and chucked a gentle finger under your chin before stepping out into the moonlight of the early morning. Back to the Palace and out of your home.

_Stop that._

You clear your throat, keenly aware of Vanth’s curious look. “Any last minute patients I should know about?”  
  
He shakes his head, coiffed hair flopping slightly with the movement. He sighs. “Nothin’ urgent, but Miss Mae’s been worrying about the baby. Says he ain’t been sleepin’ too well.”

You frown, settling into a chair and swiping your data pad from across the tabletop. “Mae’s baby…” You bring up the file, remembering the fussy infant and his fretting, exhausted mother. “Arla? 6 months, had severe colic?”

“That’s the one.” He shifts on his feet, getting comfortable and gripping the belt slung over his hip.

You hesitate. “It doesn’t sound… urgent.” Oh, that sounds like wheedling.

Vanth raises his eyebrows a fraction. A subtle, inquisitive look that makes you feel guilty. Which you have no reason to be. Obviously. It’s just _Vanth._

Still, you fight the urge to squirm. 

“Well, sure, doc. Guess it ain’t, but—”

“But?”

“But it ain’t like you to dodge a visit.”

Sometimes it’s easy to forget how observant the Marshal is. You suppose he has to be, what with his profession. But a charming grin and a strong, welcoming kind of authority go a long way to lowering your guard. He’s just too fucking _friendly._

“I’m… not.”

He’s also right, in the sense that you’ve rarely missed a trip to Mos Pelgo. Twice, if that, in the years since you started visiting in the first place. Why are you hesitating? There’s no reason not to go.

Your mind wanders back to the Palace. A wry, gravelly voice and a freshly-painted green helmet. Feeling impressed, challenged, noticed. _Excited._

_You know his name,_ a part of you whispers. _You’ve heard him laugh._

“Doc?”

“I’ll be there today,” you blurt. “If that’s all right.”

Vanth blinks, surprised. He’s not the only one. “Y’sure? Figured you’d stop by tomorrow, I didn’t mean to rush you or noth—”

“You’re not.” It takes a bracing inhale to tame your voice into something less forced. “I don’t have any other work today. I might as well.”

He lifts a hand to scratch at his bearded cheek. “Well,” he says languidly, “If you’re sure, then. I’ll let the folks know you’re comin’ down.”

“Thanks, Marshal.”

“No problem at all.” He squints at you good-naturedly. “And it’s _Cobb_ , doc. We’ve been over this.”

You stare. “Bye, Marshal.”

The last you see of him before closing the hologram is a grin. Not the worst thing, since he must’ve seen the same on you.

Letting out a long, slow groan, you lean over the table in a stretch. Something clicks pleasantly in your left shoulder.

There should be time for a cup of caf before you go to pick up a speeder.

———

_xvi_.

An hour later, you’re all set to leave for Mos Pelgo. The clinic’s locked up; a weathered, illuminated _closed_ sign flashes in the window. The mechanic you’re renting from — who can typically be counted on to churn the rumour mill — must have already spread the word that you won’t be around today.

The speeder hovers reliably in front of you, if a little creaky. It bobs in the air as you chuck your bag onto the chassis to check you’ve got everything at the last minute. There’s your lab coat, folded neatly and shoved in at the bottom. Several bacta patches, nestled between some extra changes of clothes. A pouch of as few credits as you’d reasonably need. Your regular kit-bag, with your instruments, scanner and datapad. 

The world is cast in a dusky, grey-brown film. Your dune goggles, neatly strapped over your eyes, have never quite been comfortable, necessarily. But they get the job done. It would be best not to blind yourself with sand and sun on the way.

Everything seems to be in order.

“Going somewhere?”

Ah. Not quite.

Your hands still momentarily, before moving back to your bag. Needlessly rearranging, fidgeting. Something to make yourself look busy and offer an excuse not to turn around. His voice is a nice thing to hear, but it makes you too nervous, too quickly. You’re not used to it.

“What gave you that idea?” you toss over your shoulder.

You hear his unhurried, sauntering footsteps till he’s standing next to you by the speeder. Close enough to look inside the bag and see that there’s nothing in there worth inspecting. You keep it aside. 

He’s wearing the helmet, obviously. You don’t feel offended so much as mildly jealous that he’s got some kind of shade over his face. The goggles don’t do much beyond the bare minimum.

No matter. Boba can probably tell you’re just using up time anyway. “What brings you here, then? I assume no one’s dying.”

“Is that an assumption you’d care to make?”

You blink, then frown. “Good point.” With a dubious look, you ask slowly, “ _Is_ someone dying?”

He gestures a vague hand through the air. “In someplace, probably.”

Now _that_ makes you smile. Laugh a little, with teeth too. But not so much a snarl as an opening of doors, letting fresh breeze draft through a room. “Well,” you start, letting delight bleed into your voice to humour him. “Then I suggest you better find a doctor.”

The scoff from the helmet is amused. You’ll take it. 

It occurs to you, then, that his timing is awfully convenient. “How did you know I was leaving? I didn’t mention it to anyone.”

Boba’s helmet cocks to the side. For a moment you think he won’t say, content to let you wonder, before he utters, “You did.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The mechanic you rented the speeder from. You told her.” 

Ah. 

“She informs me of any outbound travellers, as do all the transport keeps.”

“…As a gesture of goodwill.” You raise an eyebrow, and your voice is a little drier than you intended.

You don’t blame him. He needs to keep track of anyone running away from debts and deals they can’t keep. It’s understandable. Intuitive, even.

“Maybe they’re smarter than they seem.” 

There is something strange about being caught in a web of whispered information. Especially when everything that could be leached from you has been willingly, tenderly offered without request. 

The silence that settles over you is comfortable, but you know it can’t last. “I’m heading out of town for a couple of days,” you explain quietly. “It’s a regular visit.”

“Where to?” He sounds casual, almost. But his shoulders are taut and his voice is too measured. He wants an answer.

You flick the speeder’s grav-lock on so you can lean backwards against it and look at him. You cross your arms, getting comfortable. “Mos Pelgo. The Marshal and I have an agreem—”

Boba straightens. “What business do you have with Cobb Vanth?” 

If he was aiming for casual before, this is anything but. 

Your smile falters. “He’s— He needs a doctor. _They_ need a doctor, in Mos Pelgo,” you correct, suddenly feeling as if the words you choose are very, very important.

You watch him. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this agitated before. Cold, yes. Wary, definitely. But reaching alarmed-adjacent with a few words is new. 

“Is… there something bothering you?”

He doesn’t say anything.

You stand straight, leaving the floating speeder as it is. “Boba, what’s wrong?”

Saying his name in the light of day is a novelty. Something you’ve never done before. It feels good, even if he is concerning you.

Maybe it’s his name that finally makes him speak. Maybe it’s the person who said it.

“You have no allegiance to Mos Pelgo?”

Despite the seriousness of the question, you snort. It’s just— You could barely tell it was a question at _all_. His inflection was so stoic that you would’ve mistaken it for an order, some time ago.

Boba says your name flatly.

Like he’d never spoken, you tell him cheerfully, “You can’t have allegiance to a place.” Your eyes crinkle with affection. “You have allegiance to people. And there is no one in Mos Pelgo I would stay for, Boba.” 

The shrug of your shoulders is half-hearted, too irreverent for the way your voice softens. "Nor return to.”

It might be a hallucination. Some kind of heatwave distortion. But there’s a small tick of his shoulders that reminds you of a sand dune, shifting and sinking to collapse in on itself. Caving.

_He likes it when you say his name._

“And what of the Dune Sea?”

You fight the fond, bubbling urge to rest your palms over his chest. “Can’t return if I never leave,” you tease, “Can I?”

He doesn’t so much as twitch. A breeze dances past you both, a stray hair escapes above your ear. 

Then you’re both staring at each other, visor to goggles, and the mood is entirely too heavy. Or maybe that’s not the right word, because it’s not _bad._ Just feels weighted in your chest. Poignant, maybe.

So as a joke, you ask, “You came to see me off?”

“Yes.”

He says it simply, leaving no room for argument. 

“Oh.” It makes your heart do something skippy, half-confused, half-endeared. _Always finds a way to surprise you._ “Well, thank you.”

Boba nods. The solemnity of the gesture nurtures a feeling in your chest, rains showers upon it and guides it to anchor roots between your ribs, blooming over your heart. You ache, and you are driven to a decision.

Leaning closer, you glance around the street. No malingerers today, no-one scouting for a stray bacta shot you might have dropped. Not even Fennec. You nearly expect a tumbleweed to drift across the path.

You slide your goggles up to your forehead, blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness of the day. When your hands rise to his helmet, open-palmed, they are slow. There’s a question, a pliant request sung in the curve of your brow, and you wait for his answer before touching the metal.

It takes a beat. Then Boba’s permission is granted with the slightest forward tilt of his head. 

He must hear the elation in your breathing.

And maybe, for once, you surprise _him_ when you don’t go to cradle the sides of the helmet. That’s what you’d like to think, snaking one hand round past his shoulder and cupping your palm flat against the back. The beskar is just reaching warm under the suns — he hasn’t been out too long. Your other hand rests at the front, curling your index finger under the lip to tilt it upwards.

Peacefully, Boba straightens his head, but doesn’t pull away. Barely enough to look at you properly.

You slide the helmet up to reveal his chin. Then jaw, mouth. The pale, ragged scar tissue you managed to glimpse that night in the clinic, glimmering to dusk and creeping into your memory the same way it creeps across his cheek. Inch by inch, you bring his face to the light. In the street where you live, alone but for dust, Boba lets your gentle, capable hands lead the way as high as you’d like.

Then you stop.

You feel Boba’s regard for that decision in the way he stills. The helmet’s rim is pushed back barely past his nose, and you _stop_. 

It’s interesting, in the moment, to see where your gaze travels. You thought you’d drink in any sliver of identity you caught from the man. If and when he decided to hand you this part of himself so freely, you imagined you’d glut yourself on the sight so it seared into your brain.

That last part is true, at least a little. But the sight of Boba standing before you in the dusty street with his helmet partly-shoved off his face brings a powerful crest of affection crashing into your chest. It is hard to focus on anything else.

He’s still frowning — how peculiar that you can _see_ it, now — so you finally get to the point.

You duck your head, and press a tender kiss to his cheek.

Your lips are chapped; his skin is rough. Boba breathes in just a touch sharper than before, and you have never felt quite so soft.

Carefully, without stepping back, you lift your face away from his to ease the helmet back down. Rightfully realigned, you look straight into the visor. You keep on hand in the divot where his cheek would be. Where his cheek just _was._

All Boba says is, “You missed.”

You click your tongue sharply, as far as you could be from annoyed. “Oh, never satisfied, are you?”

“You could always try again.”

Exasperated, you shake your head. The movement stirs that flyaway hair near your eyes, and you’re about to tuck it back behind your ear before—  
  
Before Boba’s hand rises to your cheek to do it for you. It is not the suns responsible for the heat in your cheeks as he curls the strand back to its proper place. He holds the back of his knuckles to your cheek for a moment. The touch is reverent, and you lean into it contently.

How did it take you this long to realise he’s not wearing his gloves?

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you murmur. You’re still smiling, you _loon._ “Try not to miss me too much.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, _mird’ika._ ” Slowly, to the point of reluctance, his hand returns to his side.

You narrow your eyes. That’s… new. Not Galactic Basic, certainly. Yet if you think back hard enough, it sounds somewhat familiar. From that night in the clinic.

You could take the bait, ask what it means. If his rumbling, affectionate tone is anything to go by, it’s probably worth the way your heart flutters between your ribs. His pronunciation is crisp, confident. It’s a word, or name, that he knows well.

You’d probably end up in the heart of the Palace for your efforts, hopelessly late to Mos Pelgo. If you even left today at all.

So instead, with a bashful duck of your head, you take a step back. You’ll return soon enough. With a nod, the thought runs through your mind on loop. Just one patient, hardly anything, and you’ll return. It’s a comfort.

Temptation is such an easy thing to resist till it’s actually _there._

Throwing one leg over the speeder, you get comfortably seated before flicking a few switches. It rumbles to life, buzzing up to your teeth. Ah, you missed this.

“Back tomorrow,” you remind Boba loudly over the thrum of the vehicle. You grin, making sure he can see it. “Then you can translate that for me.”

“As you wish,” he replies dryly. There is something indulgent there, if you listen close enough. Boba jerks his head out to the open road, a universal gesture for _get outta here._ It draws a laugh out of you. Maker, he’s funny when he wants to be.

You take a final, fleeting second to enjoy the sight of him. Green is such a lovely colour.

Then you rev the engine, and you’re gone.

You’re going to miss him too.

**Author's Note:**

> translation:
> 
>  _mird'ika_ \- 'little clever one', term of endearment.
> 
> [created from: _mirdala_ , meaning 'clever', 'intelligent'; _ika_ , an affectionate suffix.]
> 
> ———
> 
> i:  
> \- am well aware of all the impossible bullshit i've written here and am wilfully ignoring it  
> \- don't know jack shit about medicine but am taking advantage of the fact that star wars doesn't either  
> \- am unreasonably happy w the fact that boba canonically uses the phrase 'have a chat'  
> \- used actual canon star wars geography!! aka christophsis, right next door to tatooine, was in fact occupied by a heavy imperial presence  
> \- need more content for fennec and her new cybernetics. desperately
> 
> and yeah please expect more of doc n boba (and fennec because she rules) - i love them all a lot
> 
> ———
> 
> find me on tumblr w the same username!
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
